Van Gogh, Don't Cut Off Your Ear! Your Top Trader Is Here

Chapter 7 Returning What Was Robbed

"You think you can just see Mr. Armand whenever you want? Get lost, you brat, don't dirty this place!"

At the entrance of No. 1 Boulevard, the thug Moro's gaze swept over Marcel's disheveled appearance, his lips curling with undisguised contempt.

Marcel, who had just rushed over from the clinic, pressed against the door that was about to close and shouted loudly: "My money was stolen! I can't buy canvas and paint! Mr. Armand's holy portrait can't be completed!"

"Useless! Can't even keep your money safe, and you want to paint? Get lost! Say another word and I'll break your legs!"

Moro scolded while pushing hard with both hands, trying to completely shut the door.

Just as Marcel was about to be pushed out by the door panel, clear sounds came from behind - the "clip-clop" of horse hooves on stone pavement and the rumbling of wheels.

A closed carriage pulled by two sturdy black horses came to a steady stop at the entrance of No. 1.

The carriage door opened, and Armand, wrapped in a dark coat with a thick fur collar, stepped down using the footboard. His boots made crisp sounds as they hit the frozen stone pavement.

"What's all this noise?"

"Mr. Armand! You're back!" Moro's voice immediately dropped eight octaves. "It's this waste - his painting money was stolen..."

"Slap!" Armand suddenly raised his hand and delivered a vicious backhand slap across Moro's face!

The force was so great that it sent him staggering into the door frame, clear finger marks instantly appearing on his face, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth.

"Useless?" Armand roared sternly. "If he messes up the painting, can you take his place?"

Moro covered his face, his eyes filled with incredible terror and timidity, cowering like a mangy dog that had been kicked by its master, not daring to make another sound.

Marcel quickly followed Armand through the door.

After hearing Marcel's plea for help, Armand remained impassive and calmly ordered: "Moro, get Solang!"

Moro was dumbfounded, thinking he had misheard!

He never expected that Armand would actually mobilize the gang's power for this kid!

But when the boss spoke, how could he dare disobey?

Soon, a tall, sturdy, fierce-looking man in a coat came running in, head bowed, waiting for orders.

Armand's voice wasn't loud, but he squeezed out his command word by word through gritted teeth: "Bring the person and the money, all of it, before me. Tell him that touching my people comes with a price. Thirty minutes. One second late, and you don't need to come back."

"Yes! Sir!" Solang responded and rushed out, moving as fast as the wind.

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Armand sat in a hardwood chair by the fireplace, eyes closed in meditation, like a silent stone.

The fireplace crackled, casting flickering light on the scar across his face.

Moro stood nearby, not daring to breathe heavily, secretly stealing glances at Marcel who sat upright beside Armand.

"Tick... tick... tick..."

The old wall clock's second hand moved with sounds as clear as drumbeats.

After a short while.

Urgent, chaotic footsteps came from outside, approaching from far away.

The door was violently thrown open, cold wind carrying a figure that tumbled in like a heavy sack of potatoes, slammed hard onto the floor with a dull thud.

It was a thin young man, probably sixteen or seventeen years old.

He wore a somewhat worn coarse black wool coat, his straw-colored chestnut hair stubbornly standing up, his cheekbones protruding due to malnutrition, his face covered in bruises, nose bleeding, one eye swollen to just a slit, his head covered in dust - a complete mess.

Solang followed behind, breathing heavily, clutching a grimy, deflated bundle tightly in his hands.

Marcel looked up at the wall clock.

Twenty-eight minutes!

This was gang efficiency?

Simply terrifying!

"Sir! The money! The person!" Solang presented the bundle to Armand with both hands, then viciously kicked the young man on the ground. "Sorel! Get on your knees!"

Armand nodded slightly, and Marcel understood his meaning, reaching out to take the bundle.

The heavy weight in his hands made his anxious heart settle back into place.

Untying the money pouch's string, the thick stack of bills and jingling coins were still inside.

"Count it." Armand's voice rang out, completely emotionless.

Marcel complied, quickly counting.

Not a penny missing.

He looked up, meeting Armand's gaze, and nodded.

"Which hand did the stealing?" Armand stared at Sorel, his voice low but sharp as an ice pick.

Sorel's eyes widened in terror, but he didn't dare look away.

Solang suddenly stepped forward, raising his right fist, about to smash it toward Sorel—

Just then, an urgent, panicked, but clear voice called from outside the door: "Stop!"

Everyone looked toward the entrance.

Marcel looked up at the newcomer and couldn't help but be greatly shocked!